A Home of Her Own

With a sigh, she retrieved the journal. Maybe returning to Dundee wasn’t a mistake, but she should’ve waited for spring. She might have waited, except that she’d wanted to be here for Christmas. The memory of that one holiday, her first in this house, had tempted her back.

She chuckled sadly. God, she was still trying to relive it. How pathetic…

Stepping past the shoes and underwear on the stairs, she went back to her mother’s bedroom to confront the vulgar graffiti on the wall. This room, those words, brought back so much of what she’d experienced when she lived here. Her friends’ parents’ disapproving glances and hushed words: Julie’s brought home that Caldwell girl again. We need to have a talk with her…. Lucky’ll turn out to be just like her mother, you wait and see…. We’re law-abiding, churchgoing folk. We can’t have that kind of influence in this house. The suggestive whispers of the boys in school: Is your hair that red everywhere? Let’s go behind the bleachers and take a look…. With a mother like yours, you ought to know all the tricks.

All the tricks? Growing up, Lucky had known more about sex than she should have, but certainly not from her own experience.

Sliding down the wall to the bare floorboards, she opened the weathered book she’d found when she finally went through the boxes her brothers had sent her after Red’s funeral. The list of male names scrawled in her mother’s hand brought back fragments of memory Lucky had tried for years to suppress. Men, coming in and out of their ramshackle trailer while Lucky was small, ruffling her hair or handing her a shiny quarter. Men moaning behind the closed door of her mother’s bedroom.

Despite the terrible cold, sweat gathered on Lucky’s top lip. She wanted to burn the journal, obliterate the proof. But she couldn’t. Dave Small, Eugene Thompson and Garth Holbrook were all listed as having “visited” her mother twenty-five years ago, right around the time a man would’ve had to visit Red for Lucky to be born. Unless Red was seeing someone she didn’t write down, which seemed unlikely given her scrupulous records, one of these men was probably her father….

Lucky recognized Dave Small’s name, and Garth Holbrook’s, too. Both had been prominent citizens of Dundee, giving her some hope that she could identify with or admire her father at least a little more than she did her mother. They might have visited a prostitute several times, but Lucky knew from watching Red that being faithful wasn’t easy for a lot of people. It was even possible that they hadn’t been married when they’d associated with her mother.

She thumbed forward to the blank pages that represented the year Morris had come into their lives. He’d put a stop to the male parade going through Red’s trailer. For a while, anyway. Until Red forgot what it was like to scratch for a living and grew bored with being an old man’s wife. Then, while Morris was away on his many business trips, everything had started up again. Only now her mother didn’t keep a list, the men didn’t leave any money, and Lucky was old enough to have a clearer understanding of what was really going on when her mother said she needed to speak to Mr. So-and-So alone for a few minutes.

Briefly, Lucky closed her eyes, shaking her head at all the times she’d begged Red not to risk their newfound security. As Lucky grew older, Red had quit pretending that Lucky didn’t know the truth and started threatening her instead. You say anything, Lucky Star Caldwell, and I’ll kick your ass right out of this house.

Her mother’s voice came to her so clearly, so distinctly, that Lucky glanced up, toward the entrance of the room. But she saw nothing—nothing except herself as a young, insecure girl, peeking into the room in response to her mother’s shrill call, “Bring me some damn aspirin.”

When things at home became unbearable, Lucky would sneak over to the Hill brothers’ barn to be with their beautiful horses. There, for an hour or two at a time, she managed to forget the sick feeling that, by her silence, she was betraying Morris as badly as her mother was. Or the knowledge that, even if she’d had her mother’s permission to tell what she knew, which she most certainly did not, she wouldn’t have breathed a word of it because she couldn’t bear the thought of Morris disappearing from her own life.

Snapping the book closed, Lucky climbed to her feet. She’d tried so hard to distance herself from all that. Once she’d graduated from high school, she’d left Dundee and never looked back. Even when Morris had died and her brothers sent word of her inheritance. Even when, two years later, her mother had a stroke and passed away. Even when Mike Hill contested the will, forcing her to hire an attorney. She’d let the attorney go to court for her and when it was all over, she’d simply petitioned Mike, as executor of Morris’s estate, for the check he was supposed to send her each month and left the house to rot.

Until now. Now she realized she could never run far enough from the past and she’d come back do something about the house. But first she had to ask Mike for a favor before she froze to death. She doubted he was going to be very happy about it.

CHAPTER THREE

LUCKY SHIFTED from one foot to the other as she stood at Mike’s door. He might be chief among her rivals, but he was also one of the handsomest men she’d ever known and, without running water in the house, she hadn’t even been able to shower. She was soaked and shivering from wading through snow, and her nose and cheeks felt so raw she was sure they were bright pink.

Pink had never been a good color on her; pink wasn’t good for most redheads. But at this point, Mike Hill was her only option. No one else lived nearby.

A middle-aged woman came to the door. Her brown hair, full of gray streaks, was pulled into a bun with a pencil jammed through it. “You don’t have to stand out in the cold, honey. This part of the house is only offices. You can come in.”

“Th-thanks.” Lucky was so cold she could barely speak.

“You’re going to catch pneumonia if you don’t get out of those wet clothes and put on something dry as soon as possible,” the woman said, her gaze traveling over Lucky’s soaked jeans.

Lucky blinked the last vestiges of snow from her eyelashes and managed a smile. “I’m f-fine. Is Mr. Hill around?”

“Which one?”

“Mike.”

“He’s in his office. Can I tell him who’s looking for him?”

Lucky hesitated to state her name. She didn’t want to send shock waves through the community just yet. But Mike already knew she was back, which pretty much ruined her low-profile return. “Lucky Caldwell.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Did you say Lucky?”

Lucky clenched her jaw and nodded. Her hands, feet and nose burned as they thawed, but the prickling sensation was the least of her worries. How was Mike going to react to having her appear at his office?

“You’ve grown up,” the woman said. “I didn’t recognize you.”

Lucky didn’t recognize her, either, and it must’ve shown because the other woman frowned. “I’m Polly Simpson—Mrs. Simpson to you, at least in the old days. I used to work in the attendance office at Dundee High, remember?”

“Oh, of course,” Lucky said. But she still couldn’t recall Polly Simpson’s face. Probably because she’d never missed a day of school in her life. School had been her refuge. She’d rarely visited the attendance office and had probably only passed Mrs. Simpson in the halls.

“I’ll tell Mike you’re here.”

“Wait.” Lucky caught her arm. “Is there a Mrs. Hill I could talk to?”

“If you mean Josh’s wife, she’s out of town. Mike’s not married.”

“Still?”

Mrs. Simpson chuckled. “Still. Do you want me to get him?”

Evidently, she had no better choice. “Yeah.”

With a final curious glance, Polly headed the other way, her panty hose rubbing as she walked. A moment later, she poked her head out of a room at the end of the hall and waved. “Mike says you can come on back.”

Lucky quickly removed her boots because the caked-on snow was beginning to melt and create puddles on the plastic protecting the entryway carpet. But when she saw her feet, she wished she hadn’t been so polite. There was a hole in her sock, which made her look like the white trash everyone here already thought she was.

“Miss Caldwell?”

Lucky straightened. “I’m coming.” Ignoring the hole, along with the wetness of her jeans and her generally haggard appearance, she refused to acknowledge the curious stares of the office personnel and walked down the hall as if she and Mike had been friends for years.

Mike had a large office with a mahogany desk, four soft leather chairs, a wet bar in one corner and several horse pictures hanging on the walls. Huge windows revealed the storm, but Lucky knew that on a clear day, they’d show the barn and the beauty of the land sweeping away from the house.

“Lucky.” Mike stood. Cool curiosity filled his hazel eyes, but he didn’t come to meet her, and he didn’t smile. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Lucky resented having to ask him for a favor, even a small one. But unless she wanted to turn into a Popsicle by morning, she had to. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting me use your phone.”

“Of course not.” He paused briefly, studying her, and she stood completely still, forcing herself to bear the weight of his gaze. She had no doubt that he wouldn’t like what he saw. She’d lost a lot of weight since she’d lived here, but her hair color was too light to be the rich auburn everyone seemed to admire, and her skin was too pale.

“You’re soaked,” he said. “Don’t tell me you walked over here.”

She didn’t want him to know how desperate she was for the basics in life, so she shrugged carelessly. “It’s only half a mile or so.”

“It’s storming.”

“I guess I could’ve dug my car out of the snow, but the closest thing I have to a shovel is a broom.” She chuckled, hoping to elicit a smile from him and ease the tension between them, but it didn’t work.

“In that case, I think you made the right choice.” He brushed past her as he dragged a chair across the carpet to a small table in the corner, where there was a phone.

As he swept by, Lucky caught the scent she’d noticed last night. Mike had been in his midtwenties when she was growing up, fifteen years her senior, but she’d always respected him—almost idolized him. And now that she could see him more clearly, she decided he’d changed for the better. Where he’d once been tall and lanky, he was well-muscled and perfectly proportioned. Faint laugh lines bracketed his eyes and mouth, and the skin of his face, hands and neck showed how often he worked outdoors. She liked Mike’s rugged virility, his light eyes and brown hair, the aura about him that said he’d been around awhile and knew how to handle life. But last night was the first time she’d ever gotten close enough to connect a specific scent to him. He smelled like the outdoors, like a wintry forest….

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” he said, but she knew his words were only a polite facade.